The Hit
by Shady Sweets McGee
Summary: Someone has hired a hit-man to take out Trevor, but who? Will the skilled gunman be enough to take down the Blaine County lunatic? Will outside interference keep him from hitting his target? Why does someone want Trevor dead so bad?


"Trevor Philips ain't a bad man. He just does bad things and that's a good enough excuse for me and the authorities."

"If that's the case, then why aren't YOU or THE AUTHORITIES the one pulling the trigger?"

"Police can't touch 'em. They're all terrified of 'em. Hell, everyone out here is, 'cept you and that's only cause you don't know 'em. As for me? I can't do it cause I reckon me and Trev's got a history. He's helped me take down plenty of fellers. I knew the day would come where his own name would be on the top of the list, but I always thought I'd be long under this earth before that came. I think it'd best if it were a stranger who took 'em out and not a friend."

"Maude, what you're asking me to do would still make you an accomplice and I'm sure your morals wouldn't let you live it down. I either incapacitate the man and take him in or I put him down all together. The way you're going on with describing him, the latter seems more fitting for the world," he hissed, lifting his face from the body of the rifle it had been resting on. He had forced himself to squint down the sights for almost an hour now and he could've used the break, but he couldn't have chosen a worse time to take it. Even with the harsh, desert sun beating down on his sore shoulders beneath the hot layers of his suit, he was able to catch the flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and whip his head in its direction. The target dashed across his own unkempt, trash-ridden yard and hopped onto what looked like a four-wheeler with flames painted around the front end.

"Shit!" he hissed, jamming his cheek against the gun once more and squeezing the trigger. The taste of blood pooled in his mouth from a small cut in his cheek from his teeth. The bullet let out a crack that echoed over the sand dunes as it exited the chamber. The butt of the gun jolted back into his shoulder and he watched as the single round just barely missed Trevor's shoulder. The target shoved a middle finger in their direction, almost as though he knew their exact location, and sped off just before the hitman could refocus his sights on him.

"Damn it. Now he's onto us," Maude cursed.

"He's onto SOMEONE. He doesn't know who was taking a shot at him. I'm sorry. I usually work in the city. I'm not used to these...conditions," the man complained, quickly dismantling the rifle and tucking it into its briefcase laying in the dirt beside him. Maude's plastic chair squeaked beneath her weight as she pushed to her feet, shaking her head and wiping a single bead of sweat from the tip of her nose.

"What do you say we call it a day and I try again tomorrow? Let him relax, maybe forget this happened?" he cheerily suggested.

"There ain't no relaxin' when you're Trevor freakin' Philips. You don't know 'em like I do. That was THE shot. That was it. There's smoke in the air now. It'd be best if you just went back to your city, laid low and forgot about 'em," she explained. She folded up the plastic chair and began to slowly clamber down the orange dunes. He picked up his suitcase and joined her side.

"You hired me for a reason. Now I have a job to do. You can stay out of it now that I know who I'm looking for. I'll come back tomorrow and figure something out. Hell, maybe I can catch him when he goes to bed tonight," he urged. She turned to him with a menacing look in her pale green eyes. Her salt-and-pepper hair was flecked with sand and she looked ready to croak at any minute. Despite her disheveled appearance, she spoke in a strong tone.

"Forget it. Trevor helped me with bounties a-plenty. Whoever I asked for, he always delivered. Maybe a little bruised, maybe a bullet hole or two in either party, but he always brought 'em. If you can't do this one, I'll call it off and go back to calling him for cash," she explained.

"What'd you pay him?"

"Five-thousand each."

He nodded and glared down at her against the bright environment.

"I'll bring him down for half that."

She shook her head and he noticed her hands clench at her sides in frustration. He took a small step back to let her breathe.

"I signed for it. This is my job now. Trevor Philips will be taken care of, Maude. You just let me know if he contacts you."

He was being followed. It was a black four-door with heavily tinted windows and gotdamn dollar signs for rims. He wouldn't have noticed if it weren't for the rims. Even in this flashy city, no one had never seen anything like it. He pulled a third right turn at the stoplight near the police station in West Vinewood and it followed.

With a semi truck between them now, he couldn't make out the driver. He pulled into a gas station on the corner and stalked inside. There was a line in front of the only register open. He grabbed a bag of popcorn off a shelf and took the spot behind a woman waiting. His cautious eyes continuously scanned the parking lot through the glass windows toward the front of the store. His jaw was tensed as he waited for the tail to pull into the lot or drive past the store. They were either gone or they were waiting to strike. There was rarely an in-between.

"Next!" the foreign man behind the register called. His eyes snapped away from the windows and met his. He laid the bag of popcorn on the counter and tossed down a pack of chewing gum.

"One dollar ninety-three cents," the casheir explained. He swiped one of his cards and typed in the pin, fumbling over the numbers a couple of times as he continued attentively peeking outside. The cashier slowly turned to peer at his parking lot.

"It's nothing," he quickly spoke up, hoping to divert his attention. "Actually, can I have fifteen dollars on pump one?"

The cashier pressed a few buttons on the device in front of him then handed over a receipt. Again, the hitman swiped his card.

"Thank you. Enjoy your day," he stated as the bell over the door jingled after he pushed out of the store. He took the driver's seat of his idling car then pulled into pump number one and cut the engine. His calloused fingers pecked at the buttons on the digital pump screen. Just as he reached for the handle of the gas nozzle, he was bum rushed from the side and tackled down to the ground. The wind was knocked from his lungs. His attacker struck the sides of his face with closed fists, twice. Against the new pain boucing around his skull, he reached out and grabbed the thick wrists of a man as his hands gripped the lapels of his suit.

"Who're you? Huh?" the stranger barked. Calm, he leaned over to the side and spat out the blood accumulating against his gums from the sudden attack. With the shock wearing off, he found himself admiring the guy's direct approach, whoever he was. He craned his neck to look eye to eye with him, but the sun was just behind the other's head and casting an unruly glare. He could already feel one of his eyes beginning to swell in its socket. The stranger struck his face once more before pulling out a 9mm handgun and pointing it between the hitman's eyebrows. There was a silencer attached to the barrel. He knew what he was doing. The hitman's ears were ringing now and he could almost literally feel the bruises forming. He slowly raised his hands. He was no stranger to the situation at hand.

"Gimme a good reason why I shouldn't end you right now? Who're you? Who you working for?"

The stranger switched off the safety and his pointer finger slipped into the trigger well. Using his foot, the hitman wrapped the line which fed the flammable liquid to the gas nozzle around his ankle and jerked it from its slot in the machine. The smelly liquid splashed onto the back of the stranger's shirt and pooled around the two men on the concrete. He could feel it soaking into the back of his suit and into the hair on the back of his head. The fumes made him want to vomit, but the playing field was now leveled.

"Pull that trigger and I'll make sure we're both going down," the hitman warned. The stranger turned his head to look this way and that.

"Get up," he finally barked through his teeth. He gripped the front of his bloodied dress shirt and helped pull his victim to his feet. Finally, standing eye to eye with his assaulter, he locked eyes with him and raised an eyebrow.

"Nice suit," he complimented. The stranger tugged off the gas-soaked jacket of his pale yellow and white ensemble. The hitman did the same and caught the stranger eye the registered handgun holstered to his hip.

"You with the government or something?"

"I don't work for you so I don't answer questions from you," he answered. "Now you wanna put that away before LSPD arrests both of us? I can get off easy, but you? Eh."

His tight, tired eyes scanned up then down the road before he begrudgingly tucked away his firearm.

"Stay the fuck away from Trevor Philips and I won't have to come back and kill you," he warned. The hitman licked the small cut in his top lip then simply smiled. Trevor Philips' friend narrowed his eyes at him.

"Whatever you say, sir," he retorted in response. He walked backward a few feet then turned on the heel of his dress shoes and disappeared down the alley neighboring the store. A moment later, the familiar black 4-door with its distasteful rims pulled out and disappeared amongst the traffic. The bloodied man stared after the stranger for a moment before returning to his car. He pumped whatever gas was left in the pump into its tank, tossed his wet jacket in a metal trash bin by the pump then claimed the driver's seat. He withdrew his cell phone and pressed a couple numbers.

"Where you at, Manny? You were supposed to be back here ten minutes ago."

"Is your computer close by? Run this plate tag."

"What happened?"

"Here it comes: _Five Mike Delta Sierra Zero Zero Three_ ," he recited.

"Nothing's showing up, boss. No name, no home address or registration number. You wanna tell me what happened?"

"Interesting. Smith, I was attacked at a gas station. The guy was one of Mr. Philips' friends. He told me to stay away or he'd kill me," he explained.

"That's cute," his partner said with a laugh.

"It was," he murmured. He lifted his chin and surveyed his face in the wide rear view mirror. The thin line of blood trailing from his left nostril was already clotting and clumping in the stubble along his cheek. His right eye was going bloodshot against the green and blue bruise surrounding it and his thick eyebrow. He nodded, slightly impressed with the stranger's doing. He had felt worse.

"You coming into the office before the day is out or what?"

"I'll get there when I get there," he replied before hanging up. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of the damp dress shirt then started the engine and drove off.


End file.
